Owned and Trained by Mr. X

[asslikker]

"Jagged Little Pill"

You live you learn, you love you learn
You cry you learn, you lose you learn
You bleed you learn, you scream you learn

— Alanis Morissette, 1996

 

As much hair that covered that small body of his, Conrad Wilson III had trouble with facial hair. His beard was incredibly sparse which, you could see with him standing there hairy and naked after his shower, the rest of his body was not. This was why he was excited to see he could start shaping the minimum facial hair to form what he imagined as a wispy Dartanian beard. A soul patch and a little chin scruff and a thin growth above the lip—something an unshaven seventeen-year-old might have. He held small scissors in his hand, clipping one, two nose hairs from a nostril. In his other hand he held a cell phone. His mother continued to prattle on.

“Did you see the front page of the Chronicle?” He glanced at Monday's finished crossword puzzle sitting on the hamper next to the toilet. “Of course you did. Look who I’m asking? I called Kitty right away. Reporters were in her drive way all morning. No word from Dr. Dean, the bastard—sipping martinis on his new houseboat in Sausalito with that horrible Nurse Wretched or what have you. Too drunk or hungover to answer. Kitty didn’t know what to do or say to the police. Of course, she hasn’t gone back to the house. I wouldn't either. The police wanted her to see if anything was missing. They think nothing was taken, just a smashed mirror. It was all the furniture that wouldn’t fit in her condo. The kids' stuff went with, but not theirs, not surprisingly. And she was responsible for the clean it up! Think of it. And insurance won’t pay nearly enough. Naturally they’ll need new carpet. If you ask me I would just give the bed to charity but they probably wouldn’t take it, well, not the mattress most likely. But the poor thing was frantic, not being able to get a hold of Dean, the bloody prick. Sorry, dear." Did his mother have a bigger grievance against Dr. Crenshaw than just sticking up for her best girl friend? He saw a blemish on his cheek and banished the thought of his mother and Dr. Crenshaw. "She fired the real estate agent, of course. I'm certain she wasn't involved. She wasn't bright enough. A set of keys were missing in the middle of the week, but did she think to notify anyone? No. Can you imagine she was going to have an open house on Sunday? I suppose for her sake it was a blessing that she had a private showing the day before. Just she and an Indian couple were there. Casino people from that place up on Highway 5?”

"Native American," he corrected.

"And if she hadn't walked in and found those bodies? Can you imagine discovering them at an open house? With all those people?"

“Mother, if I chit-chat any longer I’ll be late.”

“Oh, I know you’re busy, dear. I do hope you’re safe with all those criminals running around—be safe, won’t you?" She sighed. "Pacific Heights is so picturesque, isn't it, and your apartment is so lovely. It's where your father and I lived when we first were married. Does the landlady still sit by the window with her cat? Silvia—what was her last name? We still send her Christmas cards with our family newsletter.”

"She’s pretty much blind and bedridden, and there is no cat."

“I do just wish you would have gotten the floor above. It has the loveliest view of the bridge. Foggy nights, roaring fire, wine, your father would bring home Chinese. Ah. Oh well, I should drop by and see if you are stocked up, so you and—oh, what’s his name, dear, the Mormon boy?

“Carson.”

“Carson (laughs), like the city. And that funny last name. How is he, dear?" Her disinterest in asking the question even poured through the phone, as did the glug-glub of her wine decanter. The clink of the crystal stopper going back in its neck. What time was it? 9:45 in the morning. My god!

“Funny enough, I haven’t seen him.” It was a curiosity. Carson, who made the dining room his bedroom—he, Conrad had the only real bedroom—hadn't been home all weekend. That most certainly was not like him. He picked at the blemish.

She paused for a moment. “A dead dog and a man without pants. Oh sweet Jesus! Can you imagine? The papers are having a field day!”

“Mother, I’ll call you when I get home tonight.”

“Please do, sweetheart. I so worry about you in that horrid city."

"It happened in Belvedere, mother. Closer to you than me."

"You're telling me! I'm frightened to death. Riff-raff everywhere you turn.”

"I really am going to be late. Kisses."

Double kiss-kiss sounded from the ear piece. He hung up and snipped two more hairs from his other nostril. Perfect, but why couldn't he have as much hair on his face as he did in his nose. And why did he have to have a hairy back? He just a week away from turning twenty-one. He should ask for laser surgery for his birthday.

He scrutinized his face a final time. The blemish was hardly noticeable. He dabbed it with Clearasil just to be sure. He was ready for Monday’s make-up class. He was excited. They were to learn about prosthetic noses today. He wanted to try on a long one over his little pug nose. Sharp. Pointed. Something French to go with his beard.

***

So this happened.

I'm driving my jeep back from a matinee where I'm ushering the balcony. A rare production: a well done classic in these hinterlands. Not fully attended so I wasn't too busy. I leave the lot and it's spewing bits of icy rain. I hear a boom! Halfway down the block my entire drive shaft falls out. It makes a hell of a racket and I think, Shit, there goes the jeep. I look under and pull out the drive shaft and the U-joint. This guy passes me on the sidewalk, beeping his keys to unlock the Prius next to me.

"Well, fuck me Judge Judy," I say, not to him, just out loud. I'm standing there wet, soggy, despairingly holding the drive shaft and the U-joint in the street like some sad clown.

He's getting into his car. Looks at me, looks at the jeep. "It's a jeep," he says. "You have another drive shaft. Take it over Eddie's Transmission, ‘bout a mile down."

I recognize him from up in the balcony, before each show, talking to the actors. He’s the play's director. "That so. What do I know, I've had two cars my entire life, my daddy's Caddy and this old jalopy."

He looks me over again. Says, "Don't I know you?"

On that subject my answer is always: Nope, and move on. But this time I say, "Well, I'm a volunteer usher. I do the balcony. Nasty weather. Small house, but the actors were great. The girl who played Nina was especially good. Stayed for the whole show." I talk too much. Sometimes when I've been isolated a little too long and the cats aren't holding up their end of the conversation (as cats are wont to do), I'll go in to Walmart or some such, buy something I don't need, and just start talking to store clerks, or women who have interesting neck tattoos, or people sitting in the pharmacy waiting for their fulfillment, and just start making up all kinds of stuff.

"Mighty kind of you to say. I directed it," he says. Something passes between us. Can't pin it down. I see him searching files in his brain, too, but he keeps talking. "Kind of you to stay. Not much for the actors playing to an empty house.” He switches mid-beat. “But, I tell you what. It's the dog-gonedest thing. You're the spitin' image of someone I used to know."

I look at him. He, too, looks familiar. I see it before he does. It's Carson, the Montana Mormon kid from years ago. Same round face, same receptive eyes. Bald now. I have a flashback of more than twenty years of my back alley bedroom, of unbuttoning his jeans and discovering his prickly cactus and tumbleweeds. I have to look down and compose myself. Not smiling, I respond, "Don't see how. Never got out much from this area."

He then snaps his fingers. "David Kennedy!" He looks around pointing at me, looking to tell someone on the street who he's discovered. Truth was, years ago, right after I left the city, I was pretty paranoid. I used to wear a prosthetic nose and brown contact lenses in public to keep things like this at bay. But that got old after so many years, when I stopped thinking a certain group of people were looking. And now who'd know me in these small towns. But theatre is catnip to me and keeps me dropping in to watch actors from up in the dark. Mostly small houses, run down theatres doing bad Shakespeare, painful Moliere, some recent plays from New York, the ones with older actors in them. It's mostly older people that attend, so plays with older actors usually do well. Nostalgia. Reflections of themselves. But I confess, for me, it's also the lights, the calm, the anonymity, the smell. Did you know that smell is the strongest memory trigger? It always brings back that year and the boys that made it— as I look at Carson—and them's that didn't, JT's voice says in my head.

"Hmm, interesting," I say shaking my head, looking at him blankly. We both know I'm lying. Carson's greatest talented was reading people, reading actors especially he was playing against. Would drop out of character to say, without accusation, that he just was feeling it. He'd purse his lips like he was doing right then. I can see why he directs. Not many people can pull the drollness out of The Seagull, make it just a melodramatic tragedy; he got more than a few chuckles from a house of ten patrons and an usher. He tests me, skeptically, "You weren't ever in the theatre, movies? TV?" I bite down hard on my oft-played Walmart role, against a very tough scene partner I might add. "Nope. Love to have. Just a fan. Did one play in high school but was so nervous forgot my lines. One play and that was that. Still, I try to help out, fills up the time. Name's Keith Reilly, next town over." I look at my hand to see if I have grease on it. I don't and extend my palm. He still has the same firm rancher's son handshake. "Retired school principal. Yup.” I look up at the swirling gray sky. “Appreciate the info about Eddie's though. Your name was?"

"Carson Littlebear." The prick is smiling appreciatively and ironically.

"Well, Carson Littlebear, sure was a pleasure meeting you and I really did like your play. I'll be back in the balcony this weekend and playing all week."

He gives me a final look. "And play it well, you do, Keith Reilly, retired principal from the next town over.” He says quietly so the rest of the imaginary cast doesn’t hear: “Maybe a little less on the accent."

I give him, for old time’s sake, my best blank, uncomprehending, not breaking character, don't know what you’re getting at, look. He gets in his car, waits a moment, and rolls down the window. There's a pause as he's looking out at me standing there in the street holding my drive shaft and U-joint. I'm not sure what he wants at this point. "Can't get out if you don't—" he breaks off pointing at the car in front and back and at my jeep blocking him in. I nod friendly-like and throw the parts in the passenger side and go around to my door. Just before I get in he calls out, "Man who'd have a jeep long as you had in these parts probably would've known there was a second drive shaft—and before you say anything that you got to say to that, I seem to recall a white Caddy that my friend got from his daddy. Strange, in'it?"

"World's a strange place, Carson Littlebear," I say and get in.

"Reckon it is!" he yells as a last reach. I shift my clutch into four-wheel drive and ramble off to Eddie's.

***

He put a blanket over the sleep boy. His cursed responsibility. He sat up most of the night contemplating his next move. He gathered together a Go Bag with Shaftow's gun, both of his, the fifty-K he had in the safe, a passport and other IDs of one "Steven Jackson," two toothbrushes—one for himself and one for JT. Right. That's where his plan broke down. JT would never go with him. Should he just let him leave in the morning? Mr. X would easily find him and he'd be dead in a day. Could a day's head start make a difference to him? He shook his head in disgust at his ruthlessness. And B) he never seen or heard of anyone ever getting away from Mr. X. He had sealed that fate back in Oakland years ago.

So what did he want, he asked himself? He wanted to survive, he wanted JT to survive. He wanted to take care of JT. He wanted JT to care about him. But that ship had also sailed. That was never going to happen. He was delusional if he thought that. Then he settled for at least JT and him simply surviving. How? Coming on four in the morning he realized the question wasn't what he wanted, but what Mr. X would want. Every way he looked at it he accepted Jeremy wasn't leaving unscathed, dead maybe, but Mr. X would want a sacrifice and Jeremy would be the lamb.

He hated himself. He contemplated getting up and shooting Jeremy then himself. It might be better for them both. He didn't though. Couldn't. He let Plan B percolate. It was passive of him, cowardly, not who he was. Ultimately, they both probably would be killed anyway. See, this is what happens when go give in. He stripped, got into bed, pulled the leopard spread over his shoulder. He lay, looking at the dark windows. Failed plans floated through his cursed brain. He melted into a cold, troubled sleep, until a warm body came up behind him. JT's body.

***

I came back to the Academy on Friday. Made the drive stretch out for two days. Spent the night in Morrow Bay outside Hearst Castle, watching the seals on the beach. Next day I strolled through the Redwood Forest. Stopped at that ancient sliced tree that shows the yearly rings that marked important dates: World War I and II scores of rings in, Christopher Columbus coming to America about a half a foot, the year Jesus was born another foot, when Greece sailed to Troy to fetch back Helen. Didn't have a marker for 1996, though. Maybe we were the living moss desperately clinging to the dead bark.

As soon as I was back, Riggs buttonholed me and said Mr. X wanted to see me. Could I come over after dinner tonight? Sevenish? Not another blood oranges-rosemary chicken kind of night? I asked. We're far beyond that, he confided. Mr. X want to get down to business. He has a proposition. Please, he begged, come over. I said I would and knew instantly I’d regret it.

Joey was okay in speech class, but different somehow. Reserved, which really wasn't his style. I saw he was affectionate with Duncan on the common room couch, that Duncan was attentive to him between classes. They weren't trying to hide it either. Why should they, if Conrad had the scoop that they were an item? But in fight class Duncan was completely different. Ordering Joey around worse than he usually ordered us boys.

We were doing long poles with four foot sticks you hold at each end. We learned a routine where we'd clash in the middle at one angle, then clash again at another angle. Back and forth in the middle, a pair of us at a time. We were adding a part where the A group (my side) slid a hand down and held the pole like a baseball bat and the B side rose the pole over there head to block getting clobbered. Joey was in the B group and kept messing up. Duncan, true to form, called him out in front of the class. He repeatedly went over the routine playing the A part, bringing the pole down at Joey's head. Duncan was doing it at real-time speed. Joey would have the pole most of the way up and Duncan would smash his right hand because he wasn't quick enough. They'd do it again and Duncan would smash his left hand because he was anticipating and made the routine look fake. Joey quickly learned to get the pole up but by then you could tell Duncan was already pissed. He did a 360 with his pole and the velocity and force of the pole cracked Joey's pole in two. Duncan was about to continue another round of humiliation when Jeremy stepped forward.

"I think he's got it, coach."

Duncan dismissed him, telling Joey, “First position!”

Jeremy challenged Duncan. “Lemme see if I got it right, coach.” He stood in front of Joey in first position. That took guts and I'd ever turn of mind and admired someone so much as Jeremy at that moment. Carson went over, too, and also protecting Joey. “See if I got it too,” he said. Then Leah and I stood on either side of them and readied our poles.

Duncan really seemed off, paranoid, not at all fun. He kept tapping Jeremy's stick, and Jeremy kept tapping it away. We each got a turn tapping him away as he tested our resolve. "You mutineers taking over this class?"

Jeremy spoke calmly, "Not if you don't—"

"Hey guys," Joey broke in. "I'm the fuck up. Mr. McCain's right. I'm sorry, Sir. I'll try harder."

Duncan's face reddened. He barked, "Alright, end of class!" There were audible sighs from a few people. Nothing from us standing by Joey. "Next week back to short swords and we'll add tumbling. Be ready people. No more of this namby-pamby shite." He left by the front door without looking back.

Leah spoke first. "Duncan's an ass, Joey. How's your hands?" She made Joey show her. Luckily she didn't make him lift up his shirt, I thought. "Your knuckles are goddamn black and blue. I'm going to Mr. Riggs."

Joey pleaded with her, no, forget it. He was fine and didn't want to make a big deal about it. Mr. McCain was always like this. Jeremy said he still thought Mr. Riggs should know about it. I offered (too hastily) that I was sure Mr. Riggs was aware. All except Joey looked at me quizzically. Well, I tried backtracking, it was his school and he knows Mr. McCain's temperament. The group accepted the thought. But I now wondered how healed Joey’s back was and if there were any new marks. If something like this was going on every night, I wanted to know. I saw first hand how Duncan easily lost control.

"Well, fuck him and the ass he rode in on,” Leah concluded. “Hey, how 'bout supper! Why don’t y’all come over? Jeremy's cooking, right stud?" She brushed up against him warmly. Kissed him on the cheek. His face flushed and his cheeks turned bright red.

"I'm in," I said. Carson and Joey looked at each other uncertainly. We’d really never had a dinner together. “Dude! Of course you’re coming.”

Carson and Joey nodded. Carson asked what he could bring. Leah said, “Just an enormous appetite. Jeremy's not shy about roasting a whole pig if he's got an audience, are you sweetcheeks?

"All I got time for is spaghetti tonight, buttercup. ‘Member I have that thing at seven?" Jeremy tried to play ‘thing’ down, which only excited Leah more.

"Oh, that right! Jeremy's got a hot date with some mystery man."

Joey came alive with the revelation, blurting out an enormous, "Hah! And all this time, I thought you were a big 'ol, good 'ol boy, closet case." This was the Joey I remembered. We all laughed. Not so much Jeremy. He seemed a little embarrassed and mad at Leah.

"He ain't no mystery man. Just someone I met is all." Jeremy hit Leah, but like you'd hit your kid sister. A little more than light, but a bit less than hard.

"And I gotta mystery man to meet too,” I said. "But spaghetti sounds awesome after three weeks of pizza and salad."

"What’ya got against pizza, dude," Joey said, fake kneeing me in the balls. "Let’s get the fuck outta here. Skip the shower. Who knows what Jeremy might do if I drop the soap."

"Whatever you say, Ratso," snorted Jeremy tilting an imaginary cowboy hat, leading us down the stairs.

Joey started singing, Everybody's talkin' at me, then Leah joined in, I don't hear a word they’re sayin', and finally Carson and me joined, only the echoes of my mind. Jeremy abruptly stopped on the stairs making us all crash into each other. He turned around taking center stage, and proudly recited, "Well, sir, I ain't a f'real cowboy. But I'm one helluva stud!" Joey jumped on Jeremy's shoulders, Leah pinched Joey’s butt and I kneed Carson to keep moving.

***

Freeze frame.

That's why we like photographs. They're our mental periods. Nothing exists before them, nothing after. We’ll only forever remain in the moment. Susan Sontag argues that photography levels every event, makes all events equal, creates in us a "chronic voyeuristic relation" to the world around us. Takes us outside the world, the moment, not in it. Don DeLillo makes the argument from the flip side of the coin, as voiced by his characters in White Noise. (Yeah, yeah, I read a lot in the mountains.) His characters go to a tourist attraction called The Most Photographed Barn in America. There, every day tourist stand on the same mound to photograph the barn. The same image repeated endlessly by thousands of tourist. There's a stand to the side that also sells postcards and slides of the barn. One character watches the tourist with their tripods, and filters, and telephoto lenses. He observes:

"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception."

I have that image in my mind right now of us descending the stairs. I also have one of those physical pictures at my house. Not of the barn but from Disneyland with my family. In the photo I'm eight. My mom's is in a scarf and my dad's in a Jungle Cruise captain's hat. We must have been happy at that moment when a friendly stranger photographed us standing under the Kodak Photo Spot sign, overlooking the submarine lagoon. How many other families stood in that exact spot, happy at the moment, wearing the same expression. The moment stops there. Frozen. We can now shed the moment and get on with our lives. As with The Most Photograph Barn in America, we no longer see the barn. It’s captured. I no longer see my family. I don't have to. The family, a perfect replica, hangs on my cabin wall. I don’t even see it. I don’t need to. I know it’s there if only as an illusion. The five of us are frozen in my mind on that staircase. None of us will ever be unhappy.

***

Vinnie’s robe’s open and he still sports a very hairy, very hard erection. He lays on the floor clutching his shoulder moaning.

“Shut the fuck up! If I wanted to kill you I would have killed you. Get up,” Mr. X waves the gun at the wounded man. “Sit in chair so I can see you. Move! I might change my mind.”

Vinnie rolled to his knees holding his shoulder, checking how much blood, forehead to the floor for balance. Then rose just to his knees, feet, and hobbled to a kitchen chair where he could see JT. On the chair next to the chair holding his Go Bag.

“Vincenzo, how you disappoint me. I’m most disappointed that you didn’t even try to run. Make me chase you down.”

He was in extreme pain, but calm and lucid. The bullet had passed through cleanly. He needed to disinfect the wound and make sure the bleeding stopped, but he'd survived. To this point. “Where would I run?” he said. “We know all the same people. You'd've found me eventually.” He contemplated this delay. He had to confront Mr. X and find out what would appease him. All for letting his guard down for Jeremy. And, ironically, thinking the kid would never trust him again. Not till last night's turnaround. A gun wouldn't protect him and Jeremy. Now all he had was his reliance on words, and Plan B's off-chance getting close Shaftow's gun.

Mr. X wandered over to Jeremy, hands handcuffed above him. Frightened. To Mr. X that fear made him even more alluring. He stroked the boys wilting erection with his gun’s hot muzzle. Jeremy flinched. “You did find most handsome boy, I give you that.” He laughed, “How much you want for him?”

Vinnie looked around the room, assessing how mobile his shoulder was, exactly where the bullet had passed through, feeling what strength and flexibility remained. Daryl, the large black muscle, was next to JT, left of the bed, eyeing the kid in a way he did not like at all. Oak, the bald white muscle was by the elevator, impassive like always, looking over at him occasionally. Oak, mostly stared straight ahead, mesmerized by the porn bouncing around the monitors. He’d might zone out and be the last to react. It was getting to the Go Bag and Shaftow’s gun, taking down an already armed Mr. X and a quick drawing Daryl, which was the problem. If Mr. X didn’t outright kill him, he calculated, he could take him out first, dispatch Daryl second, and eliminate Oak third. It was a gamble and a extremely naive one. The very second he sprang he knew the plan would be obvious to Mr. X. From the moment the Go Bag became Vinnie’s target, Mr. X would instinctive know a gun was inside. That’s what Mr. X would have done. And since he still was holding his gun, running it up and down JT’s shaft, trying to elicit an erection—and starting to succeed (he knew how erotic fear could be)—he was certain he’d never get within a foot of the bag. Be dead getting off the chair. Jeremy raped, tortured and killed. Bad Plan B.

“Fifty percent of what I make off him,” he said coldly. “That’s what I’ll give you.”

“Hmm. And why not just kill you and take one hundred percent?”

“Because you can’t get out of him what I can.”

“Bullshit,” spat Mr. X, “You couldn’t even get footage for Doggy Daddy website. And now I have major cash outflow to take care of. You’re so sloppy,” Mr. X took the warm barrel and started poking JT’s balls, lifting them, parting his butt to see his boyhole. Jeremy kicked him away. “The detective to pay off to wipe tripods and doorknobs and whatever else you carelessly touched. And don’t ask how Assemblyman is taking it." He played the muzzle over Jeremy thinly trimmed pubes, seductively telling Jeremy, "Maybe I give you nice tight vagina, boy. I'm very good with vaginoplasty. Sex change is very popular." He poked the weapon again into JT's groin. "Have made many successful operations. Assemblyman fuck you after that and calls it even. You will like having big pussy. Or maybe sloppy, hanging pussy is more what you like." He ran the barrel under his balls and poked into his butthole. "Have many boys like that back home. They make good money.”

Whether he was joking, threatening or actually offering, Jeremy continued shaking his head vehemently. He was so shit-shrieking scared he found it hard to form word. He finally sputtered out n-n-no.

“Put gag in him,” he said to Daryl. “Who asks his opinion anyway?”

Vinnie was within seconds of jumping to the the bag, but Mr. X turned back his attention on him. His mind raced. What did he have and what could he offer. “A hundred large. I can give you that, too." Mr. X looked over at him. "But why, Mr. X? Why the hell would you ever waste a golden goose like that! He’s no bottom. He’ll take it in the ass if I want him to, but he’s a fuckin’ stud in bed.” He looked at Mr. X and with lurid emphasis that he knew Mr. X would understand, said, “I know. Personally.” He let that sink in and saw Mr. X’s eyes widen.

“He take fist?” Mr. was X intrigued, walked over to the kitchen table.

“No, but I can train him to be a mean fisting Top. Mind if I clean this up?"

“Go clean. No, he has to take fist too. And double dick. And scat.”

Vinnie looked at JT’s worried face. He turned away and went to the medicine chest next to the rack of towels. The dumb-ass kid probably didn’t even know what scat was. He was sure fisting to him was obvious, though. “Double dick okay, But no scat and no more animals.” He found the alcohol and roll of cotton pads and tape. Brought them back to the table, sat and let the robe fall off him to the back of the chair.

“Raunch then. He must do raunch or what else would a pretty face be good for except to be dirty." Vinnie nodded, then let out a hiss as he dabbed the wound. Mr. X continued excitedly, "Okay, we’ll put in standard contract. Fifteen gross minus my fifty percent on first three videos—co-star, not starring—then we renegotiate according to audience interest. U.S. rights only.”

Vinnie applied the pad and started wrapping his shoulder. "We'll agree to that." He did not look at Jeremy but certainly heard his protestations.

“One more thing. My pound of flesh. Assemblyman will not be happy just with money. He says he wants boy's balls too. He talked literal." Vinnie was about to protest, but Mr. X continued soothingly, "Stop your worry. I give him nice big prosthetic balls. We make hardon with implant or drugs. We can decide later. But it has to be or this escalates unattractively.”

Vinnie heard JT yelling through his gag, and saw he was shaking his head emphatically. He made out a muffled fuck you before Daryl slapped him hard. “I agree with the kid. That’s short-sighted, Mr. X. You know from your own pussy-boys back home. It’s not sustainable. Hormone therapy, the suicides, increased ED over time, permanent impotence. You'll get three years tops out of him.”

“This is not negotiable point. Assemblyman, he wants his nutsack. Nothing I can do. Wants to cook and eat testicles, preferably in front of boy. Myself? I think that is a too—uh, much. But with deal, no feds get involved. No to deal, I shoot you both and chop off his balls anyway.”

Vinnie looked at the boy who was trembling. His penis had shrunk down to an Oscar Meyer weiner size, the smallest Vinnie'd ever seen it. “Okay, final offer. One of his balls and one of mine. I choose the method,” Vinnie offered dispassionately.

“Okay," he said. "Deal. But first, I take bag and gun you look at too much.” He opened the Go Bag and waved a finger. He put Saftow's gun in his overcoat pocket and tossed the other two to his men. “You too," he said to his men. "Your job to make sure boy can take double fuck. You, Vincenzo, make sure he can take fist, next week  latest, or he gets vag and your end up in bay. I write outline of contract, you get single point ready for me and boy to bond. One dart, split gram between us. Use bag I have. Czech glass. None of your Mexican shit. Boy and I have bond. We have good bonding time, maybe I let him fuck me, I am kind. I take one ball from each of you. Assemblyman get your ball, his ball. Assemblyman never know the difference. Shhh, our secret. All balls look alike on dinner plate. Everyone is happy."

Mr. X took out a small bag of solid, clear shreds of crystal, and laid it on the table. Vinnie pulled his robe carefully over his shoulder, got up and took a spoon from a kitchen drawer, a plate from the cabinet. Mr. X put a razor blade next to the bag, eyeing Vinnie carefully. Vinnie got to work. "Hey! Salt ‘n Pepa," Mr. X called over his shoulder. "What you wait for. Get busy. We have much business tonight.”

JT eyes grew wide as saucers, as Mr. X’s two muscles rapidly stripped, displaying monster cocks to rival his.

***

It took over an hour for Mr. X and Vinnie to work out the contract until both were satisfied. While Mr. X wrote out the first version, Vinnie chopped, cooked, and cooled the clear vial. Shortly into the negotiation Vinnie saw JT was resisting, consciously or not. The two men frustratingly took turns trying to get their dicks into him. Vinnie asked Mr. X if he could give the boy a booty bump out of his own stash. Generously Mr. X pointed to his own baggie and Vinnie pinched the bottom debris and flicked it into a shot glass. With one of his plungers he added water, mixed it up and, once dissolved, sucked it back up. He came over to the boy whose legs were being held and spread in the air by the two muscles. Mr. X put down the contract and came over to watch. Vinnie put some lube on his finger, greased the boy's hole and slid in the plunger, pushing in the contents.

"Trust me, cowboy. You can hate me for the rest of your life, but you'll have a rest of your life." The kid stared at him the whole time, unnerving Vinnie, made him regret every second of their future.

Fear broke over the kid's face. Quickly the boy began rapid breathing and then an unnatural calm came over him. His small hole clutched in and pulsed out. His pursed asslips puckered in, while the drug absorbed into his porous ass walls. He was trying to push it out but he could feel the cold liquid dripping deeper inside.

To Mr. X the transformation was always remarkable. The boy's face transformed slowly from fear to lust. He could see his hole pushing out for someone, anyone, to enter him. A little cum, probably Vincenzo's bubbled up. Irresistible as honey, he bent down and lick JT's hole. The youth was startled by his forked tongue, but he soon offered his butt again to the freakish old man. Mr. X stuck in his tongue sending a wave of gooseflesh over the boy. Even the muscle men couldn't help but get a little hard over the boy's change. "Back to work," declared Mr. X and got off the bed.

It took slightly less than an hour for Oak and Daryl to both get inside JT and satisfy themselves. Oak, true to his name, had a solid piece of wood. As soon as Vinnie and Mr. X resumed their negotiations at the kitchen table, he did his duty vigilantly. He was very hairy, not in a clipped porn star way, but as man who drank, worked out seldom, and never watched his diet. He was thick around the middle and had very broad, dock worker shoulders. Jeremy felt the man's buried muscles under the very fleshy and hairy chest. JT's hole was tight in fear but now relaxing. Either way, Oak couldn't have cared less. He actually preferred a fight, overcoming an assailant who didn't want him in him. Rape turned him on. But the kid tightness without the bump was impossible to penetrate. Not as satisfying as it would have been to break into him over the long haul, the kid was compliant, didn't fight him as he slipped his hard and dripping cock into his body.

Jeremy flinched when the bald man's knob first when in, not mentally, but from the physical size of it. His mind was shifting; now he desired his hole to be stretched to take whatever was offered. He felt Oak's head and shaft sliding down into him. He bucked to take the man in faster even though it hurt. Hurt is what he wanted. That and degradation. He nudged the black man, Daryl, who knelt next to his head, pushing the gag ball against his cock. Daryl took off the gag and stuffed his cock in the kid's mouth. While Oak was fucking in his last few inches, Jeremy swallowed the veiny black cock.

Oak pumped away in him while Daryl grabbed his head and skull fucked him. Jeremy choked several times when Daryl rammed his cock in deep, which only made the man harder. Daryl was the opposite in every way from Oak. Muscles covered with jet black tattoos. Hairless, even on his crotch. If he weren't going through his initial rush, Jeremy would never have been able to even get beyond the uncut dark knob. But Daryl was slowly feeding him, slowly getting himself aroused. Jeremy slathered his cock up and down the shaft. Went under him to lick his balls, nudged him to get to his ass crack. Daryl straddled over him, letting  the boy's tongue journey into his ass. His cock bobbed up and down with every stroke of the kid's tongue. Jeremy tasted the funk that lined the man's smooth ass, felt the stubble of shaved hair around his hole. He knew what he was tasting was an unwashed hole and recognizing that, dug in deeper.

Daryl tapped Oak and they traded places. Daryl was even larger and went further up Jeremy's shithole than Oak. His cock was fatter too. Jeremy tried to reach out to touch his black skin. He'd never been this closer to a black man before and was curious and lustful to stroke the skin of the man on top of him. Daryl told Oak to uncuff him, and once freed, Jeremy ran his hands up and down the man's broad back. Daryl started fucking him harder, pinching his own tits, while Jeremy pushed his hole up to meet the man's every plunge. Jeremy's tongue explored Oak's ass and balls. Oak's hole tasted like soap but there were burrs wrapped up in all that hair between his buttcheeks. Jeremy sucked at them swallowing the bits of dried shit, while thrusting his hips up to meet the black man's meat.

Before Daryl could explode in the boy's compliant hole, he withdrew and flipped on his back. Oak guided the boy's horny wet hole to sit on Daryl's upright monster. "Yeah, fuck yourself on him, boy, get him to gape your cunt." Jeremy, excited by Oaks' words, started bouncing on Daryl's engorged member with abandoned. It got the attention of Mr. X and Vinnie. JT saw them looking and liked being watched. He bit his lip and started sucking Oak's dripping cock in front of them. Daryl grabbed the boy's muscular arms and drew him back to rest on his chest and kept fucking him from behind. Jeremy put his arms on Oak's torso and pulled him down as he went down. He wanted them both. Oak fell on him causing Daryl to let out a grunt under the weight of both men, but continued plunging into Jeremy's receptive hole. He thrust harder knowing what was coming. He loved feeling another strong cock rubbing against his, deep inside a pussy hole like the boy's. Oak took his member and aimed it at the black cock pistoning in the smooth pink hole. Fully lubed, he pushed his cockhead against the gliding black cock and joined in the penetration of the receptive hole. Jeremy initially let out a cry of pain, but enjoyed the sensation of having his hole shared by two such muscular and criminal assailants. He awoke to what he was, a whore that would take on anyone who would have him. He loved that his ass was providing his attackers such pleasure. Daryl grunted in his ear but it was Oak telling him to give up his pussy. A deep masculine voice telling him to let them destroy his cunt, that they'd fuck till they split him open, only encouraged Jeremy to abandon himself to pleasure. Jeremy joined in the self-abuse, begging them to stretch him apart, give him a sloppy pig hole. He felt it turning the men on, verbally debasing himself this way, feeling them grow harder, impaling him faster. His hand scaled Oak's back running his hand over thick back hair, and running his other hand under the black man's ass, assisting him, feeling the muscle tense with every thrusts. He never felt so open and desirous of cock in his life. They tore his ass wide and deep and he loved every second of it. He felt his ass lips stretched out and pushed back, and lips loose and extremely free against these men inside him, felt their penetration deep, felt something slither inside when one of the men came. It was Daryl who let out the first shit, felt him fuck him deep, hold himself in, then impale him again. It triggered the bald man on top of him to nut too. Daryl grabbed his arms tightly, pinning him down, while Oak punished the hole with his full weight. JT cried out with the mass and depth and in intense pleasure as his own cock, under the weight of Oak's large and hairy gut rubbed his cock to orgasm.

He found his chest covered in sweat and cum when Oak pulled out. The man stood up stoically, like nothing had occurred, pulled Jeremy off his partner and tossed him aside. Daryl, equally indifferent, got up to his knees, put his cock next to Jeremy's mouth and demanded him to clean it off. Jeremy wanted to continue to play with Daryl's swaying balls, but all Daryl wanted was to have the lube and cum cleaned off him before he got back into his clothes. Satisfied, he got up and dress into his black business suit, as did Oak. They stood on both sides of the kitchen table as Vinnie and Mr. X finished signing the document.

***

"Tie him," ordered Mr. X as soon as Vinnie put down the pen. "Legs apart." Vinnie's robe hung open, his dick flaccid, his heart scabbed over. The price he paid for feeling a moment, an hour, a day of tenderness, of weakness, letting his guard down, not thinking clearly, was paying him back with ice now running through his veins. He knew what he had just signed away: any hope of happiness or forgiveness. Perhaps he deserved this sentence but he knew Jeremy didn't. This was his punishment now, his sentence was to watch his boy writhed in the wet blanket, sticking his hand in his ass, pulling out webs of cum from between his legs, licking his hand and swallowing the two indifferent men's spooge.

Mr. X slowly stripped in front of Jeremy. The kid licking his fingertips watched the man before him. Mr. X motioned to his two men and whispered something to them. They nodded. Jeremy lay fascinated at what Mr. X was revealing. The overcoat draped on a chair, shoes, tie, shirt. Mr. X, who he thought as just the boss of thugs, out of his clothes was an old, withered man, a hag with sagging pierced tits. Maybe at one time he thought he appeared stark, shockingly compelling, now he was simply repulsive. His tattoos laughably cliche. A hula girl, a ship on his chest? Jeremy almost laughed, Where was Popeye? This guy's muscles were old man muscles. Stringy, veining and bruised, a junkie's body. He'd seen men like this before, the father's of the junkie's his brother hung out with. The dude would be dead soon, thought Jeremy. If not this year then the next. His pants off, hung over the rest of his clothes, Jeremy was impressed and disgusted by the anaconda hanging between the old man's legs. He withdrew another slop from his hole and sucked it down. Mr. X found a vein, stuck himself with his point, registered, plunged half the vile in his vein, sucked air through his mouth, and lay back with the point in his arm. Eyes closed, lying at Jeremy's feet, he said to him off in a distant place, "Lie back and show me your neck."

Jeremy laid down on his side, hands folded by his face, as if he was preparing for death. Mr. X rose, the needle dangling till he pulled it out. He crawled up to the boy. Opened his eyes, steadied himself on the boy's shoulder, feeling it, groped down till he found the boy's small nipple and squeezed. He felt the boy twitch. "No, no. I do anything I want. You take it. Understood?" Jeremy nodded. "Brush hair from your neck." Jeremy brushed it back. "Don't move." Mr. X bent down close enough for Jeremy to feel his foul breath. The needle pricked, he felt the gush of red liquid enter his neck, go straight to the brain. He twitched uncontrollably, 10 trillion synaptic connection, one percent of his brain fired at once, electrifying throughout his core. Dopamine flooded his system, millions of dentrites fluttered and gave out simultaneous jolts of white hot euphoria. The needle left his neck, replaced with the forked tongue of the incubus slathering the trail of blood left behind.

He was back in his hometown, back in his junkie high, broken into again like the abandoned house he went to with his brother, the shooting gallery wandering the hallways, house of boarded window. There, in a corner, a couple fucked anonymously, it was a toss up if they knew each other, in the broken tile bathroom his brother pushed his head down for him to suck him off, an old derelict lay nodding naked on horse. Creeping in blindly to the old man's room, his brother's cum dripping down his face, crawling to where the old man lay, fondling his body in the dark, sucked on his huge metal-filled eel. He ran his hands like braille over the studded cock. It was the merger of maleness and madness and he wanted it in him. He pressed himself back on it and its rigidity overtook him without a fight. The old man twisted his consenting body till he towered above him. He looked up through black eyes and saw the old man above him. The old man's eyes blazed like coals. The demon's bone impaled his core, controlled him from within. "Fuck me, Sarah Palin," he whispered. The man whispered back to him, "I am not your Sarah Palin, I am your God." He saw his brother standing over him, urging him on. "Give him your soul, little brother. He has mine." There were others standing around the room, silently nodding. The demon spoke to one of them to get the lights. The room faded to the dimmest flames of yellow and glowing embers of red, where shapes became shadows and shadows shape. He felt these wisps of darkest run their hands over his body. Fingers and cocks entered his mouth, fingers were added in his ass accompanying the pumping shaft with its beads and painful ring. How shitting felt like, with its peristaltic motion usually crawling waste out like a undulating caterpillar, but the world was upside down, inside out. Things were going in the usual went out. "Stick in your hand," ordered the figure overhanging him. He felt a hand forcing its way in, smothering the sliding cobra within his colon. Without objection, took adsorbed everything into his body the monsters provided. The hand smothered the snake in his ass. It stretched and plied him open until he felt his ass ring close and capture both snake and wrist. He heard himself scream outside himself as he rocked on it while the stroking hand perused the snake. The snake hissed, slithering and bit him inside. The hand travel deeper breaking every barrier he thought he had. The were no longer barriers to anything, physically or mentally. A mouth covered his, breathed in him air as foul as hell, as fetid as a cesspool. Something snapped under his nose and the odor caused him to bare down harder, to take as much of the arm slithering, pulling in the snake farther within.

In the half-light everything halted as a new hand went to his throat. Whispers of foreign tongues exchanged above him. Nyet. The hand left his neck and crawled to his scrotum. It pinched, grabbed, rubbed his nuts. He understood the foreign tongue, my jewels, it said.

He felt a slow stinging in his bowels as the snake spewed venom, and then a rush of liquid filled him, bloating inside, blocked at his entrance so not a drop escaped. He thought he would explode as the mass of liquid had no route out, only up, in. The coil of metal and flesh withdrew, but another hand immediately replaced it. Long, bony fingers broke through first, but then a fleshy palm began ripping him apart. He yelled for it, for them to stop, but a black cock invaded his throat. He wanted that too, and the suffering. So many things held him down, covered his flesh. He felt the swirl of a wet worm enter his cock slit and lips cover his penis. He was feeling too many things that were unreal and impossibly pleasurable. His hole caved into a cunt. Two hands rode inside him. He felt altered. Emasculated. Blazing fire ran over his skin. He was feverish, his skin covered in a sheen. His enormous cock shrank to a clit. Someone was fingering it, sucking it. The black cock spit in his mouth and he swallowed the salty phlegm down again and again as it erupted. Then a black face spit in his mouth. He heard the old man say move and, like a six legged crab, the old man crawled over his face, still sucking his cock and clit. Whatever dim light that shown, dimmed even more, two black moons fell over his face, landing a moist wet stain on his lips. The stain listed back and forth like a tide of filth. He stuck out his tongue and absorb the taste. It changed him to a helpless heap, a slave to his senses, the pleasure of confirming his worthlessness. A hot slug swam into his mouth and he swallowed it before he could think. Then he thought no more and succumbed to senses that smothered his brain, till darkness engulfed him while his body played on and on.

***

Vinnie hung his head ashamed. The kid was gone. Who would emerge as the sun came up? He watched as Mr. X hung his ass over Jeremy's face. He watched transfixed as the old fucker's prolapse fell out from his hanging asslips. Jeremy lapped at it like a trained dog. Spread the scum's cheeks apart to slather as much as he could find. He couldn't watch but he couldn't stop watching. JT'a full erection bobbed excitedly up and down as he got into the writhing he was inciting on Mr. X. Vinnie's hands flexed, testing his binds. His shoulder tore against his bandage. Mr. X was impossible to defeat. The barrier of evil was insurmountable. He could watch then couldn't stop watching. The degenerate mobster wasn't satisfied defiling his victim, he was corrupting it, climbing over the boy's body, dragging his enormous entrails over JT's chest, rubbing on the boy's smooth skin obscenely, and now mounted the boy's erection, scaling it, plunging himself down deliberately, repeatedly, masturbating until both he and boy erupted. He shot across the room, spewing ropes flew across the room. The leopard spread was wet and defiled with artifacts. Mr. X rocked in the aftermath, pleasuring himself with the boy. He sat for the longest time, slowly squeezing the youth. In a trance of satisfaction.

***

Time could not permanently keep Vinnie in this hellish purgatory. That was left to his eternal conscience. But the sun did break through the windows. The boy's dick flopped out and Mr. X got up on spindly legs. "The boy is adequate," he said cracking his back. "One last thing and we call it a day."

Vinnie voice was horse and deadened. "It's in the bed drawer, at the end."

The old man wheezed, "What a noble man you are, sacrificing part of yourself for part of him." Mr. X pulled out the pliers-like device. The emasculatome. "Untie him," he said to his two men. "I'm too tired. I want you to do the boy. I will do you. Then we leave you to play house again." He dropped the heavy device on the table. Went back to the boy to wipe the slime from his ass and crotch into the boy's long brown hair. Only then did he proceed to dress.

Vinnie rubbed his freed wrists, then sat his elbows on the table and hung his head. Mr. X fully dressed, clapped his hands. "Chop, chop."

The boy was dazed. Most likely didn't know what was going on, had no idea of the conversation that took place hours ago. Still, Mr. X's men each grabbed one of Jeremy's  arms and legs, readying for the upcoming struggle. Vinnie approached with the heavy instrument and knelt at the foot of the bed looking at Jeremy's beautiful hairless sack hanging there. "Jeremy," he started, then fell forward with only his fist to prop him up. In back of him Mr. X tapped the table twice. "Cowboy, I am so sorry." Mr. X tapped once more, emphatically. The boy looked up at Vinnie confused, his face tarnished and streaked unforgivably.

"Vinnie? What's happenin'?"

Vinnie looked away, said, "Sport, we've played much rougher than this. And you and I are going to make it through. Okay? Understand me?"

The kid's eyes were tweaked, spinning but he was smiling. His large, brilliant, shark-teeth smile. "What's this game we're playin, Vinnie'? Is this where we squeeze each other's balls and you say, look at my dick, look at my dick?"

He decided to tell him straight. He showed JT the emasculatome. "This is used to castrate sheep. It crushes the sperm cord, cutting off the blood vessels, and kills the ball. It don't cut you, but testicle can't get blood no more, and it shrinks up and dies." However far back JT's brain had settled inside, he came crashing back fully awake, holy terror in his eyes. The two strongmen pinned down his strong, rebellious body. Jeremy banged his head back several times against the pillows, pleading, heaving for Vinnie have mercy, to not to do it. Vinnie crawled forward on his knees. He held the instrument in his good hand, cherished one of Jeremy treasures one last time, feeling for the internal cord. He placed a thumb on the lock, the jaws snapped open. He looked JT in the eyes, took a deep breath, brought the jagged claws down hard and severed the cord. Jeremy wailed all the breath in his lungs into the pillow's tiger face. His body went into seizure. His head bounced side to side, erupting into a second long, bitter, agonizing hate-filled scream. He screamed once more that shattered and choked in his throat from the horror of what was happening was true, that Vinnie had done it to him, and ended in a broken cry of utter, final betrayal. He glared through tears and cursed Vinnie. The men released him and he rolled up into a tight ball, weeping endlessly on the bed, clutching his dying stone.

"Next," said Mr. X to Vinnie, who walked back to the chair, opened his robe, and welcomed the punishment.

 

 

Edited January 29, 2017 by asslikker

[TTFN]

Well one ball is better than none.

Vinnie is like a cat, has 9 or should I say 8 lives.

[asslikker]

For Ponyboy.

Vinnie in his robe. We'll keep in closed for now.

 

Edited January 30, 2017 by asslikker

[TTFN]

You keep teasing us asslikker.

[bareall77]

Yet another example of the best and worst combined to give what is absolute pleasure. Turning the unnatural feelings combined with past memories into a visual. A photograph. One where nothing before and everything after doesn't fit. Only that moment, filled with fear, pleasure, and agony. The kind that sends your consciousness into lucid darkness. A contradiction in of itself. Aware of what is going on, unable to stop it. Like an addiction to the weakest coffee or most potent meth, reading this story is like a living breathing page of words. Each one having their own importance in order to feed the reader. 

I'll have another cup, with sugar. Or another slam, a tad more potent. Either way...the first step is admitting. I admit that I want, no need more, regardless of what happens next.

What an awesome story. And regardless of how obscenely horrible the tale gets, the want for more grows with each chapter. The small spots of brightness may be short-lived. Though it's their impact that I remember. 

Like a photograph, capturing a single moment in time. 

[asslikker]

9 hours ago, bareall77 said:

lucid darkness

That's it! You and ponyboy are writing upcoming chapters. I'll keep us honest as to what went down in '96, but very much appreciate the close reads and comments. Don't know if the next enstallment, American Mangina, will be anyone's cup of tea (or weak coffee), but it does bring in Sebastian, one of the more, er, memorable guys who, like a black cat, crossed my path. (Like many others, I have a thing for bad boys.) So I dedicate it to you and ponyboy. Hope you enjoy, if enjoy is the right word. 

[TTFN]

Wish I had your writing talent asslikker.

[bareall77]

Thank you for those kind words @asslikker.

Although it may not be everyone's cup of tea, American Mangina will certainly have me wanting more. Just like a cup of coffee on a caffeine-less morning. 

One of the reasons why this is very good writing is your knowledge of the characters. A good writer has to think like the character. What would David do? Not what you would do. How is Duncan going to react to the individuals who stood their ground? What is it like going through such extremes (pleasures and pain or a combination of the two)? Not for you...but them. 

[asslikker]

American Mangina

Ashford Crenshaw, son of Dr. and Mrs., is buttfucking Conrad Wilson III, who's on all fours. They both have on leather harnesses. Ash, as he prefers to be called, wears scuffed leather boots, Conrad wears a leather cap and collar. No shoes. They are both watching a doctor fucking a nurse on Ash's big ass television.

The doctor is hot—Brazilian, with a huge, hairy chest, arm and shoulders as big as cannons. The only thing he wears is a stethoscope dangling around his neck. The boys mimic the couple on TV doing it doggy-style. The nurse is naked except for her starched white nurse’s cap. Her huge boobs swing in circles and bangs against the operating table while she's getting fuck. Both the boys are impressed by how the man is slapping the shit out of her ass. There's dialogue going on between the couple but it’s in Portuguese and the boys are not really listening anyway. Ash tries a couple of slaps on Conrad ass.

Conrad yelps.

Ash likes hearing Conrad yelp and slaps him and rides him harder, feels powerful smacking his old chum. He's about to nut, pulls out, quickly pulls off his condom, and spurts all over Conrad's fuzzy back.

Conrad immediately cries, "I haven't cum yet."

"You're the slave, so you don't count." Conrad is just about to get up in protest and lecture Ash about the rules, so Ash shuts him up by putting two fingers back in Conrad's fuckhole. He rocks them in and out a few times to stimulate Conrad. He's not heartless. Conrad starts beating off rapidly and cums quickly on the towel Ash earlier provided. Nothing gets on the white shag carpet. That's rule number 4. The Brazilian hunk spurts all over the woman's back around the same time.

Ash sits on his couch towel he also put down earlier. "Okay, slave. Channel seven." Conrad crawls over, switches the channel and plops down on his towel, then lays back to wipe of Ash's cum off. Dick Clark announces the final countdown of 1995, the Times Square ball drops, the numbers 1996 flash on the screen, and confetti falls all over Times Square. Debra Harry sings Auld Lang Syne and the thousands in Times Square, in funny hats and glasses, sway. The song ends and she breaks into one of her old hits, Call Me, and the hoards start jumping up and down.

Ash looks at his glass coffee table. He leans over, scrapes a long trail of coke for himself from a large pile on the table. He inhales half in one nostril, half in the other. His cell rings. "Yo," he says, listens for a while. "No, bro, I'm out.” He’s eye Conrad, motioning him to turn down the volume. “Last teener went to Harvey and Jasper at Tahoe. No, sorry dude. Resupplies come in next week.” Conrad’s not responding so he throws a Time magazine at him. Conrad complies but is miffed Ash is talking to someone else. “No can't, have a family thing tonight. Petey, gotta go. Have a friend here. Yeah. Later." The stash is piled high, the contents of one of his five remaining eightballs. He's chewing his lip. Next to the stash, the Daily Californian, the college’s paper, is folded to the back section listing several parties in the bay area. He looks at Conrad. Even though Conrad's cute with all his freckles and twenty year old furry chest, he wants to get rid of him. He and Conrad go way back to before they can remember. Their families were friends; both father's practice pediatric medicine, both monthers date back to Wellesley as sorority sisters. At six and five, respectively, Ash and Conrad played a game called King and slave, a game that Conrad made up. Ash was always the King, Conrad the slave. In junior high they parted ways—actually Ash ditched Conrad. Something had changed in puberty, actually Ash changed in puberty. He grew, not just grew taller, but grew gorgeous. He took note of how girls, boys, even adults looked at what he was becoming—a very handsome teenager. Compared to rock stars and GQ models he was passing them in strides. He liked what he saw. Strong jaw, straight hairline, dark brows over blue eyes that were almost fluorescent, a long straight nose, sensuous Cupid’s bow lips, a chin with a small cleft, deep dimples he exhibited sparingly; all together a striking face framed by golden hair that fell in fine wisps like blowing wheat. Throughout high school his body filled out even better. He played soccer and water polo. Each sport, supplemented with weight training, gave him a V-shaped torso, broad shoulders made wider by wing-like lats from swimming, strong legs, and a perfect bubble butt. With friends, he surfed weekends at home and spent winters perfecting his snowboarding skills at his parent’s chalet in Tahoe. He was fearless and agile, impressive, at times intimidating, in the half-pipe. Throughout his teens, slight modifications, the right haircut, the right clothes, the right attitude, he was sculpting himself into a modern day Adonis.

He and Conrad still saw each other at annual events like Christmas and Fourth of July family picnics, but Ash remained aloof. But something again happened toward the end of their high school years. Even though Conrad was small he was hairy. Ash spotted him at the beach the summer he graduated. Conrad, who was then going into his senior year, was strolling down the beach with his little sister. Ash stopped him and they talked for a while. Once Conrad got his own apartment in Berkeley he called and invited Conrad over. They reminisced, Ash guiding the conversation, until one thing led to another, and King and slave resurrected with a much more adult rule book.

Throughout puberty life changed Ash. However, during his senior year, right after his birthday, an encounter in a Golden Gate Park toilet changed him altogether. Yes, that happened, but in his first year at Berkeley he radically changed even more. He not only did he plunge head first into drugs, he became a dealer. This brought about so many changes in him, even he couldn't keep up with who he was. He liked pussy, but he also liked the subversive elements of fucking boys his age and especially younger ones.

He would never admit this, but privately, if you pointed a gun to his head, Conrad was his favorite. His old chum always kept him amused, always creative, altered the themes of their King-slave game on a dime. Sometimes it was ship captain and cabin boy, sometime is was Scout Master and Cub Scout. But aside from the leather caps and navy hats and merit badges, it always boiled down to Ash buttfucking Conrad in front of the TV watching straight porn.

Conrad was the only full-on fuck boy of Ash's, but there were starting to become other one-offs. Even his frat buddies weren't immune. It was the thrill of getting busted, the high of pushing the envelope. He and a frat buddy shared a girl one drunken Tahoe weekend at his parent's chalet. They gave he G. By the end of the night the girl was passed out and they started double dicking her. It wasn't gay because of the girl lying there comatose. Didn't matter that it felt awesome rubbing his hot frat buddy's cock against his own big stick. Just a few weeks later he was involved with two girls—couldn't remember their names—and Kyle, one of his surf bros. They were all on ecstacy. Several times, first time accidentally, the remaining times not, the boys crossed swords changing partners. It got to be more fun than fucking the girls. The last round of jousting hanging over the girls, the prettier of the two girls said why didn’t they just get a room. The boys went back to fucking the girls but the fun was gone. Net-net, he was always the instigator of the scene. He produced the drugs, the nights got wild, everyone denied anything weird happened the day after. They always were just so out of it, stoned, tweaked, blacked out. He liked the power play, the "accidents," and "man, was I" blank, which led to further encounters where he was leading "straight boys" into not very straight behavior.

Being a dealer was changing him. Now a college junior, drinks with cute underage freshman, usually naive working class boys, would lead to offers of free samples of his wares, and to him giving them head or he getting it. He'd been cutting into his stash for the free samples, but also stepping on the product to hide the overhead costs. He'd been craving more thrills lately. Also he starting getting reckless with his late dead drop of cash. He was letting his id get him into the seedier venues, bathroom stalls at school, and twice now, filming tied up freshman twinks and blackmailing them for further encounters.

While Conrad wiggled on the towel, Ash watch the Times Square crowd dance to Heart of Glass. Getting rid of Conrad was never really hard. "Slave. Come here, slave. Lick my boot."

Conrad looks at him. "Those boots. They're disgusting." He jumps up and runs to the front door. "But I did bring you a Christmas present I couldn't just give you at Christmas in front of our families." He brings back a large Macy's shopping back. "I thought I'd give it to you now. I hope you like it, Your Majesty."

It's wrapped in black paper, odd for a Christmas present, thinks Ash. "Sorry, bro, I only have that snow globe I already gave you." He rips open the package and finds a large shoe box. He opens it and see two new shiny leather boots. "Pix!" he shouts, "These are awesome!" He admires them, then give Conrad a quick kiss on the mouth.

Conrad bristled at be called Pix, Ash's nickname for him—Pixie—since he was six. But also thrilled that his hero from forever, kissed him for the first time. Not passionate tongue kissing, but he'll always remember the feel of Ash's lips peck his.

Ash smells the boots. It kick-starts something in his groin, reminds him where he wants to be this evening. He holds them out to Conrad. "Go on. Give them a lick. You know you want to," he teases. Conrad holds out the tip of his tongue and gives it a quick lick. They both laugh. "Good slave. Wait!" Ash finds his socks on the pile with the rest of his clothes, puts them on and slips on the boots.

"Size eleven, right?" asks Conrad, concerned, while Ash struggles with his second boot hopping on one leg.

"You got it, bro. They need to be broken in, just, like, you!" And the second boot pops into place. He steps in front of Conrad and lifts his foot. "Now lick it, slave," he orders. He's thinking tonight he might find someone for real to play this role.

Conrad considers it. Raises one finger, says, "Just this time because they haven't left the building." He takes his tongue and licks the soul of the boot from arch to tip. Ash very much likes what he sees. He parades around his apartment only in boots, letting his dick slap back and forth, stopping at his full-length mirror, growing even more impatient for Conrad to leave. "Hey Pix, how about this once, just for New Year's, you do your first line of coke with me?" Conrad turn sad and serious. Ash knows Conrad is on so many pharmaceuticals prescribed by his father—for anxiety, for depression, for his ADHD, for the Star Wars battles that are constantly going on in his brain (his words)—that Ash knows he's frightened of actual getting led into a maze of drugs and never find his way out. And just like clockwork, as soon as drugs are brought into the picture, Conrad starts gathering his things, making excuses, saying he should get home before the holiday traffic, before his whiny mother starts worrying and calling him every fifteen seconds. Ash thanks him again, gives him a big bear hug, which Conrad pretends to hate, takes the little guy's coat out of the hall closet, thanks him for coming out to Berkeley. "Drive home safe. Later, Pix," he says, and closes the door.

He travels back to the mirror. He really does like the boots. He struggles to get them off but does. Slips on his leather pants, enjoys the feel of leather against his skin, debates whether to put a shirt on over the leather harness, decides against it. Puts on his leather biker jacket, pockets a brown vial of coke, goes downstairs, gets in his Bimmer and drives over the bridge to Bar X.

***

He's standing at the corner wondering why he's hesitant to go in. He looks the part, but he's not sure how much of this is costume pageantry and how much of this is real. Certainly some of the men passing him on their way to the bar are swishy queens so it's in drag to them, but most of the men passing by are serious, oozing sex like his rugby pals ooze sweat in August. He catches one or two in the eye. They cruise him back. Totally in it as contact sport.

He sees most of them hold passes. He's not sure if that means he'll have trouble getting in. The line’s thick and growing down the block. He takes out his brown vial and scoops a bump. Snorts. Wipes his nose. Of course he'll get in! He's come this far, and shit man, fuck you! he's Ashford Crenshaw; hot, buff, twenty-one, five-eleven, Caribbean eyes you could easily dive into and never come up for air; on a scale of ten he's a motherfucking twelve. He cuts his way up the line. He's in his full regalia. He unzips his jacket  displaying his smooth, cut chest, perfect six-pack abs, a treasure trail skanks and faggots have paid to lick, his new Scorpio tattoo over his heart beats with all the pride of a November-born Scorpion: sex, secretiveness, intelligence, power—did he mention sex? He brushes his blond chair back, parted perfectly down the center. They should all lick his boots, he believes. There's a tall Latino guy that he tries to cut in front of at the door. The guy blocks his way. "You in a hurry?" the guy says. There is small threat in his voice. "Nah, bro, you go ahead." "Muchas gracias." "De nada," Ash shoots right back. "Your invite?" says the security man—bald, very big, very threatening. The Latino guy looks back, sees Ash stymied, says, "Oak. S'okay, He's with me." Ash waits while Oak opens the black rope.

Ash takes off his jacket and checks it in at the door. There's a tall, skinny black guy at the coat check, naked in a harness whose center strap leads straight down to a cock ring sporting a very long cock. The coat checker hands Ash a token, says, "Don't lose that. Try finding a black leather jacket in this crowd at the end of the night." The man reaches out and grabs one of Ash's tits. Ash smiles his crooked smile, kind of friendly, but not that friendly. Puts a dollar in the coat check's tip cup. 

He wants to find the guy who let him in, maybe buy him a drink, try to make friendly-like. Better always to be talking to someone than standing alone. He thinks he sees the guy. Black hat and leather jacket he remembers at the door. He's as tall as he thought the guy was, six foot, six one. He catches up to the man, reaches out and puts an arm on the man's shoulder. The guy bolts around, ready to defend himself. Ash gives him a second to remember him, then leans in, yells, "Hey, thanks for back there," over the loud din of the bar. The guy flattens his lip, a non-committal You're welcome. The guy is pretty good looking, Ash judges, as his eyes adjust to the bar’s dim lights. Dark hair also parted in the middle, a thin mustache that he shouldn't like, but it looks good on him. Probably about thirty. The man's eyes squint while he evaluates Ash. His brows are full, wary, his chest and stomach smooth and ripped beneath the jacket. He has a long sideburns that accentuate his thin face, dark brown hair just over his ears. "Can I buy you a drink?" Ash shouts. The guy considers taking the offer, and nods once, yes. "What can I get you?" Ash asks. "Scotch." His voice is deep, serious, with just the touch of an accent. "Any kind in particular?" Ash is wondering now if this was a good idea. The guy keep emitting extremely intense vibes, not attentive to Ash's friendliness. He won't smile, this guy, so Ash denies his. Figures he's looking weak. For some reason he now wants to impress him. He's definitely not some muscle head but there is something about him that reeks strength. The guy still hasn't answered. Ash weaponizes his good looks, runs his hands through his sun-bleached hair, knows how it will fall back evenly over his ears, showing dark roots and sun-dappled tips. Ash shouts a little louder with a cupped hand above the noise, "What kind of scotch do you want?" "Expensive." Ash smiles just a little, no teeth.

He makes his way to the bar. It's packed. It's getting so congested there's soon going to be no more room to move. There's several bartenders busy behind the bar. Televisions on both ends of the bar show a fisting video that looks particularly cruel. The biggest, meanest looking bartender, wearing a very old leather vest, sprouting huge drooping tits with what's has to be 00 gauge tit jewelry, says not loudly but so deep Ash can feel the bass of his voice in his balls, "What will you have?" It's all Ash can do to not take a step back in intimidation. He runs his fingers through his hair. "You have Lagavulin?" "Eight or sixteen year?" "Sixteen," Ash replies, then holds up two fingers, "—two of them." "The magic word," says the man. Ash is taken aback. Thinks. "Uh, please?" He’s never been talked to by a bartender like this. "Not the word." Ash then considers where he is." "Two Lagavulins, Sir." "Much better."

The barkeep goes up to the top shelf, pours two good size glasses. The barkeep sets them down and inches the glasses in Ash's direction. "Thank you. Sir." The man nods. Ash puts down a hundred. A large hand covered by a snake tattoo lays over the bill. Ash sees that the snake tattoo's forked tongue ends where the fingernail should be. The barkeep crumples the bill. Ash shivers slightly as the man walks away with it.

"Hi!" A middle-aged man saddles up next to him, sets his drink on the bar. Ash wonders if he’ll get any change from his hundred, but this middle-aged guy’s suddenly in his face. He can't see where the barkeep went. "First time here? You're a new face. I'm Terry. Terry Brennan. But my friends call me Terr, like Holy Terr." He lets out a loud laugh. Ash looks around for the guy he wants to get back to. The bar is wall-to-wall men now. Lot of skin, lot of sweat. A clammy guy rubs up in back of him. Ash's half-annoyed, half-aroused, looks in back of him. The guy is cute. He looks at him not unfriendly. Wonders if the guy’s collar means he's owned. The middle-aged guy, Terr was it? isn't taking a hint. He's asking what his name is.

"Ash. Ash Phoenix." The man rings pearls of laughter into the room. "Like the Phoenix that rises from—. Love it! And what do you do, Mr. Phoenix?" "Berkeley. Student." He's opting for the one word answer route. He also looking around the bar, paying as little attention to the man as possible. "Oooh, a frat boy. Love it." Ash examines the man coolly. Leather jacket, leather pants, yellow kerchief tied around his neck, boots, cap. Boy did this place run the gamut. The man has a goatee, black. A little bit of black hair peeks from his cap. Ash suspected it's all died, it's too solid, makes him look like a cheap Halloween devil. His eyes are a little scary though. He suspects coke, maybe X. They're fairly bulging out his head admiring Ash. "So, frat boy, what are you studying?" the man peaks over his cocktail, like that’s supposed to be cute. He looks at Ash sideways with curiosity. Maybe also he's trying to focus. "Economics, English minor." The man downs the rest of his drink. He grabs across the bar, clutches one of the younger bartenders. "Another one, sweetheart." Definitely drunk and on something. He's too energetic just to be drunk. "Assemblyman Terrence Brenner at your service. Graduated many, many centuries ago from Cal Poly. Animal Husbandry." For some reason he finds this hysterical and slaps the bar multiple times. He tips back his leather cap. "Ever get down to Salinas, Mr. Phoenix? I'd love to host you." "Not really," Ash responds, now searching the room more vehemently. The Assemblyman continues, undaunted by Ash's cold shoulder. "I have a tremendous farm. Very private. Asparagus, lettuce, cauliflower. Lots of migrant workers who are charming but...but what I mostly love is my livestock. Love, love, love. Pigs, goats, cows, dogs of course, and some very, very special horses. Do you ride, Mr. Phoenix?" "Uh, ye-ah." Like it should be obvious. "I bet you do," the Assemblyman says, groping Ash's chest tattoo. "Ever let a horse ride you?" He thinks the man is serious the way he’s eyeing him, but the politician immediately sends out another peal of laughter. "Scorpion. I so envy boys like you. So young, so proud of your status. How long have you had it? The tattoo." "What?" Ash is this close to shoving this pervert away. He opts, instead, for disinterest, giving his full attention to scanning the room. "I got this last month on my birthday." "Oh, dear. The horoscope. Hah. My bad. So you're not—? You should be careful. Not give people the wrong impression."

The young bartender's back and set Brenner's drink down. His barkeep's right behind him and slams down two quarters as change for the drinks. Under the coins is a pass with a St. Andrews Cross—Bar X's logo—stamped on it. He eyes Ash and leaves. The politician sets down a ten. He also notices the invite.

"Oooh, VIP lounge. I would agree that you're pretty special too. Mr. X never gives first timers VIP treatment." Brenner turns to look out into the crowd almost hurt, pouts. "I heard they made the meatrack room into a disco just for tonight. I bet it's pretty." He closes his eyes. "Lights, slings, fuck benches, racks, crosses. Looks like you're one lucky boy.” He’s back to groping Ash with his blurry gaze. “Don't know who you have to fuck to get one of these but I bet you'll find out."

There is a strong, forceful slap on Ash's shoulder. The man Ash has been searching for finds him. There is something possessive in the hand that stays on Ash's shoulder that he likes. He leans over Ash and says to Brenner, "Why don't you go fuck a dog." Brenner stares at Ash, says, "Now that's a knot I'd advise you to take." He takes his drinks, spins around and melds into the crowd. "Besa mi culo, puto! Stay away from him, hear me?" Ash turns around to look at him. He's more handsome than he remembered. His piercing brown eyes still squint suspiciously at him and then around the room. The guy lights an unfiltered cigarette and pinches it hard between his slim fingers. He takes a long drag and exhales it at the ceiling. He offers Ash one. Ash never smokes but takes one anyway. The man lights it. Their faces are close. Ash smell strong body odor coming off him. Anyone else he'd be repelled by, but it's the opposite. Ash pulls up a little closer to him, ostensibly from the crushing crowd, but they both know that's not it. Ash takes a tiny toke so he doesn't choke and blow his coolness. The cigarette is mellower than he imagined, and he takes another draw. He reaches back and hands over one of the drinks, then reaches back and gets his. "Sketchy guy," says Ash. "I'll stay away.” He salutes him. “Yes, sir!" Ash thinks he being ironic, but quickly realizes this is a man who takes words like that seriously. Ash brings down his salutes and takes a sip. The scotch burns going down. He breaks into his winning smile, the one that slays. "To 1996," Ash salutes the man again, more or less to change the mood. "Cheers," the man salutes him back and downs the glass in a single gulp. His Latin accent seems to have a slightly British tinge to it. Funny. "Cheers," returns Ash and, feeling challenged by the one gulp maneuver, finishes the rest of his in one gulp. Both slam down their glasses at the same time. Mr. X is suddenly there with two more full glasses.

"You’ve met Mr. X?" asks the man. "Not officially. A pleasure," says Ash, then remembering his protocol, "Sir," and reaches out a hand. Mr. X swallows his hand with a meaty paw. Ash tries to avoid looking at his missing teeth. The grip is close to painful. Mr. X examines the boy while he's in his grip. Ash straighten up like he’s back in boarding school. "Ashford, Ash Crenshaw," he says as he’s been conditioned to say, forcefully, confidence dialed up to eleven. Mr. X lets go of his hand. Ash falls back to running his fingers through his hair. "Allow me to present," says Mr. X, "Senior Sebastian Romero." Sebastian tips his head slightly. "Ash Crenshaw," says Ash Crenshaw in full peacock mode. His burning belly is getting him to relax. They shake hands. Sebastian's hands are rough, callused. Ash feels like a kid suddenly thrown into a room of adults. These two men both feel intimidating, worldly. As the drink burns in his belly, he's feeling how he kind of likes how his feeling, triangulated by these dominating men. There is an awkward pause as Ash thinks of something interesting to say. He puffs on his cigarette, and puffs up his armor, saying, "I just got back from Peru. Mancora. Ever been there, Sebastian?" Mr. X kicks his head back a little, says, "I thought I hear you say you were Ash Phoenix?" Ash is surprised. He thought it was just him and the Assemblyman at the bar. "You heard that? I didn't think—." Sebastian interjects, "Mr. X hears everything, don't you Mr. X?" Mr. X considers for a second, "Better is Ash Phoenix, the bird that rises from the ashes of death. We should all be so lucky." Sebastian and Mr. X nod. Mr. X pours himself a glass, clinks the other two. The three of them drink. Sebastian and Mr. X finish theirs, Ash has a little left.

"Yes, I know Mancora. Hermosa. I travel a lot around South America." Mr. X looks at Sebastian with caution. Ash tries to maintain coolness, but his passions for his recent trip betrays him. "Muy hermosa! My buddies and I were in Arica, Chile, surfing on winter break, then Mancora, then Nuqui. You know Columbia?" "I am Colombian. We kidnap boys like you there for ransom." Ash keeps his face neutral scanning Sebastian's face to see if he's serious. Mr. X breaks into a deep, rolling laugh, then Sebastian smiles for the first time since they've met. His teeth are uneven, tobacco stained. He displays a gold canine tooth. Ash laughs to catch up with the men. Suddenly becoming aware of the situation, Ash asks, "What brings you up north?" He looks intently at Sebastian, then follow’s Sebastian’s eyes scanning the room. Ash is beginning to think how he might gently extricate himself from this scene. "Import and export," says Sebastian. It's as much as if he's rubbing Ash's nose in the obvious. "Interesting," says Ash. He's carefully considering his next words. "At Berkeley, I have a course right now in the macro-economics. It's about trading partnerships.” “Oh, yes?” Sebastian has stopped scanning the room and is focused only on Ash. ”What goes in, must come out, right? If a country gets behind, for example, certain levies must be laid. If a country gets too far behind there are most likely penalties. Right? If there is a relationship built on trust, consignment can be leveraged on the defaulting party, giving them the opportunity to deliver on what was previously agreed to." "I deeply take to heart economics," says Sebastian. Mr. X breaks in, cutting to the chase: "How much time is needed for a restitution, this being the third occurrence, and as the principal lender must now get involved?" Mr. X looks at Sebastian.  "Banks open Tuesday, day after tomorrow," Ash says, feeling the scotch and heat of the room. "I'm sure payment could be easily be arranged to get up-to-date." Ash sees the two men staring at him in dead earnest. He continues, now becoming frightened even though the room is full of bystanders, "twenty thousand with perhaps a ten percent," he pauses, searches their faces, "twenty percent penalty attached." There is a long pause. Sebastian finally breaks it. "I'm afraid examples must be made or the system, the vast network, breaks down." His eyes are now barely closed slits as he looks into Ash's eyes.

“Do you like poetry, Ashford? Of course, you do,” says Sebastian. "It is your minor at Berkeley. I'm sure you know this one.” Sebastian places his hand on Ash's hand, resting on the bar, holding Ash captive. "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mera anarquía--mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." Sebastian turns his body against Ash, trapping him to the bar rail. Sebastian's other hand is now scaling over Ash's shoulder, clutching him, sex mixed with menace. "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere--La ceremonia de la inocencia es ahogada;--the ceremony of innocence is drowned;" Sebastian runs his fingers through Ash's fine blond hair. The hair falls back, as it always does, perfectly in place. "The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of--apasionada intensidad--passionate intensity."

Ash is to the point of fight or flee. He opts for neither. His heart races. He’s feeling so many confusing things at once. Fear? Liquor? Something in the liquor? A hardon? They have slipped him something. If it’s G he might be headed to the hospital. He simmers down a bit identifying what the feeling is. He's never passed out on G, he know how aggressive it makes him. He feels he's got a handle on it now and gets more of his confidence back. He plants himself on familiar ground, reciting back to Sebastian, "And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" While he’s reciting the familiar verse, his mind spins. He’s plotting wildly, though he knows his brain will be slowing down to a crawl soon. "Yeats," he says. "Does he fuck with your mind like he does mine? Right now I’m feeling pretty fucked. It always seems Yeats could be talking about today, this second. Would you like—?" He takes out his vial of coke, offers some to Sebastian who accepts. Mr. X declines. Sebastian snorts a bump, then Ash does his. That’ll keep him from passing out. He’s played chemistry set with his body before, knows what counterbalances he needs. What he doesn't know is what their endgame, so he's looking for options. He eye the front door as a means of escape and sees Daryl taking passes. As the cocaine hits, his brain has a vivid flash of Daryl, his first connection to the drug trade. Teenage Ash sucking off his first black cock in Golden Gate Park during his last year in high school. Daryl who gave him his first taste of blow; who soon arranged blind drops between drugs and money, and money and drugs. Suddenly the strings of father’s money cut him loose in independence. Daryl smoking at the door, opening up the black rope with a bandaged hand, his little finger missing.

Sebastian places a cold hand on Ash's shoulder. "You signed on to help things fall apart. You are a very smart young man. I ask you, if you falter, what does mere anarchy have to fall back on?"

He's fucked. Ash knows the G that makes him lose focus is battling with the blow, which makes him focus. The combo is also making him aroused. If he's fucked, he might as well get fucked—that’s G talking, he realizes. His mind’s fracturing, clouding up with a sexual fog. Sebastian might be the perfect partner in this state. Delaying tactics—yes, delay. Two hours tops and then he'll come down; dance, make out, a hand job, suck him off. Whatever it takes. He;s got about a gram in his vial. The rational side of his brain, the one he'll lose in a couple of minutes, tells him to stall, wait as the G fully kicks in and then tapers off. He can barter, trade his way out of this. G tells him what he already knows, he would love to get fucked by this Colombian stud staring into him. Sebastian is reading his mind—now it’s the nose candy's paranoia talking. Did he remember condemns? His mind is kicking thoughts around like a pill ball machine. He was hoping something like this, well, not exactly this, might happened. Yes, he has condoms in his pocket. His brain is a hundred disparate jumbotrons flashing over Times Square. The west coast countdown has begun on the televisions. This could all be cleared up, he assures himself, if he can make it through the next couple of hours. The drugs are short-term. He's got the money, and he can get more. He needs to get the plan going— 

He speaks over his shoulder. "Mr. X, Sir. Thank you for your invitation. Would I have your permission to take Sebastian with me as my plus one?" He hears Mr. X's deep voice behind him, "Sebastian is welcome anytime. No reason this can't be pleasant." Sebastian cracks the smallest of smiles, a gold tooth glinting. Ash speaks to Sebasian. "Should we slouch then toward Bethlehem, my friend?" It's not acting anymore. He really wants to get fucked by Sebastian, the first man he's ever met that he'd consider it. Sebastian smiles genuinely. "Sí, mi amigo hermoso." "Enjoy," says Mr. X, "I join you later." He takes his and Sebastian’s glasses to the sink. 

Ash is about to finish the last of his scotch, when the Colombian puts his finger on Ash's lips, shows him a white pill on his tongue. He pulls Ash to his mouth. Against all better judgment, knowing this will fuck up everything, knowing too late that this is not the plan, he’s overruled by desire. Ash meets him open-mouthed like he's wanted to all night. Their tongues interweave, and the pill is taken into Ash's mouth. He will never forget this kiss at midnight, when leather men all around him cheer and exchange their own kisses. All the sirens and horns screech around him, warning Ash Don’t! Ash parts from the most tender and deadliest kiss he's ever had, downs his scotch and slugs backs the pill.

***

Edited February 4, 2017 by asslikker

[asslikker]

Ash stumbles on the last step going down. Sebastian catches him. He's in Sebastian's arms now in more ways than one. They go through a wide, dark tunnel. Slings on both side. The slings are full of men getting fucked and fisted. It's hard to focus on any single couple. Some slings have multiple men surrounding them, some men get sucked, some fisted and groped. It's hard to tell where one couple begins and the next quartet ends. One thin Filipino man is hyperactively climbing all over a portly middle aged man like a spider monkey, fucking him at times, fisting him, sometimes fisting and fucking at the same time. An older man sits on a stool toward the end of the corridor and methodically punchfucks a very young man. There isn't passion passing between them, just a steady rhythm of fist after fist. Periodically, and asymmetric to the punching, the younger man wales out a mournful yowl, half regret, half acceptance and desire. The grease is turning from pink to red. The old man asks if he should stop. The young man says harder.

Sebastian leads Ash into the main area. The Assemblyman is right. Slings, fuck benches and St. Andres crosses line the walls filled with willing performers. Sex surrounds the dance floor. Lights of blue and green switch back and forth with red and yellow. The scotch and pill already has an impact on Ash. The colors are more vibrant than ordinary disco lights. They have a sheen on the edges. He can stare into them without going blind. He and Sebastian take to the dance floor, but instead of dancing, Sebastian stand on the sidelines. Ash waits on the shore of the sea of men. He undulates, encouraging Sebastian to join him. He rocks his pelvis, strokes his arms in front of him like he's churning butter, circles an arm above his head, movements that have, in the past, enticed men and women to him. Sebastian stands unmoved, squinting, watching, waiting.

The dance floor absorbs Ash. Many men are naked. They rub their bodies against Ash, encourage him to gyrate to them. He is sandwiched by a couple, one auburn haired, one jet black. They writhe and grease Ash with their sweat. Ash is rippling between the two men's bodies. Then the tide passes him through deeper into the crowd. At one point, inside the heavy electronic beat, his body is passed into the air. Hands feel his torso, his crotch, his face, swirling around, point this direction then that, turned so that anonymous men can feel every inch of him. He feels a boot pulling off. He says hey to the ceiling amused. Another boot, socks comes off. He sees he's not the only body floating above the crowd. He reaches out to one but is being floated the other direction. He's turned over and someone is at his zipper pulling it down. His pants inch down and expose him. They're off and the men below now stroke and pamper him. He's loving it. Another body in the air right beside him floating naked too above the crowd. He extends a hand as does the other, and they feel their arms locked together, seeking mooring, but pulled apart, each carried on a tide that billows them together, then parts them to separate ends of the dance floor. Hands and fingers probe his ass, lube him, caress him. Clenched fists grope his cock. His flesh is licked, tits sucked, balls fondled, all the while the flares of green and blue to yellow and red wash over him and the hands beneath.

His body is passed down to an empty sling in the opposite corner from where he came in. And who is there waiting by its side, naked, erect? Sebastian is there. Of course he is. Maybe he orchestrated it, spellbound the audience and encouraged them to deliver Ash to him. Settling in the sling, Ash reaches up to touch Sebastian's skin. It is rippled, sculpted in a way a man should be sculpted. Every edge is firm, every curve and angle hairless. He feels the ripples of Sebastian's stomach, sculpted like an artist would sculpt a man, like Michelangelo would. They move their hands slowly over each other's body. The surrounding crowd shrouds them, gives them their world, leaves a private sphere around Ash and Sebastian—though every move they make is watched.

Sebastian leans down to speaks to Ash. His face so close, yelling to be heard over the electronic beat, Ash can feel his spittle. "You are so white, so wanting to be corrupted." Sebastian examines Ash's cock, squeezing his shaft to get him hard. He snarls, "You corrupt me with your wanting."

"Corrupt me," pleads Ash, slipping his cock up and down in Sebastian's calloused paw. "I'm all imperfections, it just doesn't show."

Their tongues come together enticing more passion, rich in possibilities. Sebastian leads Ash deeper into the maze of passion. He stands naked before Ash, his body smooth except for the eagle's wings of dark hair above his long, succulent cock. The hairs are perfectly straight, look soft. Ash brushes the eagle wings ready to take flight. He brushes one side to the left, the mirrored side to the right He takes the beautifully sculpted crown into his mouth and excites the cock, first on the head, then draws down the shaft until its disappears down his throat. The soft hair brush against his lips.

His groin smells of man. It tastes of man. Ash's arm is being squeezed and lightly touched. Sebastian ties off his arm at the bicep. Ash is spiked and then, before he knows what happening, there is a chemical being flooded into his body.

***

You feel an orgasm coming. It takes over you body, the enormous rush of eroticism climaxes. But this particular climax stays in your body. Peaks like a high tide but does not recede. It keep you peaking on a wave of euphoric buoyancy. It does not stop. Wave after wave of orgasmic ebullience you ride like the unending surf, the longest wave stretching out before you, no end in sight. You leap in the air, taking off, spinning off the lip of the half-pipe, spinning past a 540, a 720. You flip, you curl. You're running along the beach, you jump a puddle, your soar never touches the ground until you decide to touch ground. You glide, you fly; gravity is a word made up by Newton but has nothing to do with you. Newton is dead and you are alive more than you've ever been. You are above the law of nature. You fly and soar above the clouds, above rules of nature herself. You are Zeus that commands all things. You fly and soar, straddle between heaven and earth. You ride an orgasm, ten times, a hundred times, more powerful than you've ever felt, like the waves you ride in Africa, a wave that takes you past several countries, continents, there are no borders here, there are only rich colors, blue-greens of earth that you stare into. The colors become you: It extends past watching, past anything you've ever known. The rush of heroin is ten times more than words, opens you to meaninglessness, words only hold you down. You body is indebted to Sebastian who owns you, who freed you from your body. He is out there somewhere in the blue-green, now red-yellow. Has pushed you through mirror. You are on the other side, looking at him through a barrier of glass. How can he not be you? You have tripped, tweaked, but never have you soared in flight like this. You never want to experience anything but this again. You will take anything, do anything, sacrifice anything to sustain this elevation, this mountain peak. Stars and comets surround you. You'll kill, maim, sell your soul to maintain this high.

Sebastian watches you, evaluates you. You want him inside you. He takes the meaning as you lift a leg to capture him. You're saying meaningless words, it's the motions, the urgency of getting fucked that make you understood. You take his ass and pull him into you, feel the perfection of his body as it slides where no man has been. Why have you waited this long? Nothing has ever felt as good, no food eaten nor wine drunk has ever satisfied a hunger you now feel. You are gods among men. Men watch envious of the passion you shower onto Sebastian. You show the mortals what a fuck is. You bellow out your passion over a drum beat that makes the men around you pulse, writhe, slither, mimic a tenth of what your feeling. Sebastian is stirring the organs inside you with his mammoth cockhead. Sebastian is the phallus you body prays to and preys on. Your body blazes, every nerve ending fires simultaneously, you feel each strand of pubic hair rub against your ass, you feel Sebastian's heavy balls slapping against you. He's grabbing your cock and guiding you to the same end as his. His skin glistens orange like a devil, now aqua like Neptune. You are underwater drowning in desire for him. You reach up and bring him to you. You merge with him, you become him, sees you as you see you, flawed, imperfect, and still fucks you anyway. Who could desires you as you are? He should destroy you, and he will. You're flooded with his cum as you discharge white lava over his chest. And still the orgasm doesn't end nor does the line of men emerging from the sea of men. Familiar but disconnected from context. A beautiful black man with a bandaged hand missing a finger is next in line, a man holding a horse dildo, a young black man in a harness with a strap that connects to his cockring, an old man with sagging tits holding yet another needle. At that point, with that point, because of that point, you, who you remember, will no longer exist.

***

"How are you feeling?" Sebastian asks. They are in a white tiled room, brightly lit. Ash still hears the dull thump of music beyond the door. "You stopped breathing." Mr. X has his back to him taking instruments out of a metal pan, placing them on blue paper. Ash has similar blue paper draped over his body, except for a cutout around his crotch. His right arm has an ivy drip going into a vein. Sebastian wears a surgical gown and has a surgical mask that's held on by one ear. A stethoscope dangles from his neck. Mr. X also wear a surgical gown.

Ash tells his body to move but it can't. It's not struggling, it just can't move. He attempts to raise a finger but the impulses that runs out of his brain are severed by something dripping into him. Even his eyes find it hard to move. It takes all his effort to move from Sebastian's face to look at his cock. He see Sebastian holding it with a blue latex glove. Ash doesn't feel it very much, just a warm throb. "We were concerned," he tells Ash, "but I think you are going to pull through magnificently." Ash commands his eyes to look up. He sees he's in an operating theater, men behind the glass watching entranced, sees in the glass himself reflected, laid out on a metal table.

Mr. X pulls over a tray with instruments on it. Sebastian takes up a scalpel. Mr. X says muffled behind his mask, "You will mostly not feel this, but we felt it important that you observe. Think of it not as punishment—"

"But a chance to be reborn," says Sebastian, pulling up his mask and putting the scalpel to the tip of his penis. "To rise again from the flames, como un fénix—like a phoenix."

 

[TTFN]

Ash reborn.

[bareall77]

Very hot. I wonder though...how much, if any, this has to do with Ash dealing? And the vague conversation at the bar about owing and banks opening on Tuesday. Money was even discussed. Did Ash screw one of these guys over? Or is it all coincidence?

Personally, based on everything up to this point, there are no coincidences in this story. Everything has happened for a reason. Everyone chosen-carefully selected. As with anything human, there have been some unforseen things. Vinnie falling for JT comes to mind. 

However, those are the exception. This night with Ash was planned out. Now I want to experience the mangina they create...but also see where this all goes. 

Also, I need to point out that a large portion of this story - according to the author - actually happened. Which brings up a whole bevy of questions in of themselves. Most recent, do parties like this actually exist? These extreme cases of pure sexuality, drugs, experimentation, abuse, bliss, and corruption of the worst kind? Humans are certainly capable of these and far worse. Though, we are getting a glimpse (perhaps) of the Looking Glass into the heights of sexual perversion and depths of depravity. Both beyond anything most experience in their lifetime. 

Kudos for keeping me equal parts turned on, disturbed, and craving more and more! 

[bareall77]

As the saying goes: "curiosity killed the cat." Let's hope that I have 9 lives! 

[asslikker]

Whereas sometimes life is random, a story should have some sense of coherence. Do parties like this exist? Yes. (If you ask a former Master of mine, one who’d been a Jesuit and his other ex-Jesuit friends he’d bring by, he’d tell you definitely—in fact, much worse/better occurred, depending on how you see things.)

For me, this party is a mixture of elements of your generic Black Party with one of several private fisting parties I’ve attended. For example, the simple walk-through of the “wide, dark tunnel” from the bottom of the stairs where Ash stumbles, to the main dance floor, that corridor is a direct lift from one such fisting party—one from a couple of weeks ago that’s still vivid. Here’s what really occurred: There’s about eleven of us. At one point I’m fisting a very advanced fistee going in very deep, and I see that the Crisco is turning pink. I ask him if he wants me to stop. He says go on. I’m turned on and start punching him, and the pink is starting to turn to red. I warn him and his response is “harder.” Meanwhile, in the next sling over a young Filipino kid, boy really, small, short, has a stool he’s jumping up on, climbing down from, trying every angle on this older guy he’s working on, fucking, fisting, both. I’m a little out of it, but his small frame definitely looks to me like a spider monkey. The sling on the other side of me has this seventy-year-old guy slowly punching a young twenty-year-old (who a few hours earlier had been fisting me). The guy in the sling’s very quiet for a very long time, simply taking each of the slow punches, then randomly he lets out an enormous wail. So combine this party, smash it together then edited it to a single paragraph, letting it play out as a prelude to the main dance space, gives you the sense of what it's like for Ash. Is it real? Yes. Is it true? I punt: sort of. 

Ash's financial fuck ups and payback, among other things, returns in The Phoenix. 

[bareall77]

11 hours ago, asslikker said:

Whereas sometimes life is random, a story should have some sense of coherence. Do parties like this exist? Yes. (If you ask a former Master of mine, one who’d been a Jesuit and his other ex-Jesuit friends he’d bring by, he’d tell you definitely—in fact, much worse/better occurred, depending on how you see things.)

For me, this party is a mixture of elements of your generic Black Party with one of several private fisting parties I’ve attended. For example, the simple walk-through of the “wide, dark tunnel” from the bottom of the stairs where Ash stumbles, to the main dance floor, that corridor is a direct lift from one such fisting party—one from a couple of weeks ago that’s still vivid. Here’s what really occurred: There’s about eleven of us. At one point I’m fisting a very advanced fistee going in very deep, and I see that the Crisco is turning pink. I ask him if he wants me to stop. He says go on. I’m turned on and start punching him, and the pink is starting to turn to red. I warn him and his response is “harder.” Meanwhile, in the next sling over a young Filipino kid, boy really, small, short, has a stool he’s jumping up on, climbing down from, trying every angle on this older guy he’s working on, fucking, fisting, both. I’m a little out of it, but his small frame definitely looks to me like a spider monkey. The sling on the other side of me has this seventy-year-old guy slowly punching a young twenty-year-old (who a few hours earlier had been fisting me). The guy in the sling’s very quiet for a very long time, simply taking each of the slow punches, then randomly he lets out an enormous wail. So combine this party, smash it together then edited it to a single paragraph, letting it play out as a prelude to the main dance space, gives you the sense of what it's like for Ash. Is it real? Yes. Is it true? I punt: sort of. 

Ash's financial fuck ups and payback, among other things, returns in The Phoenix. 

I just know I want to attend one of these parties, if only once, so I can take all of it in. Experience some of these things MYSELF.